


The sun doesn't set on the shoreline

by VinWrit



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, M/M, Selkie! Aziraphale, Siren! Crowley, mythology AU, selkies and sirens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2020-03-06 11:29:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 5,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18850183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VinWrit/pseuds/VinWrit
Summary: They say that the sun never sets on Eden House.They also say that Eden House is haunted. Nobody in the nearby villages ever visited the old manor, and its strange occupant. He'd been there as long as anyone could remember, and they said that he was mad. Mad Mister Fell, they called him. Poor old Mister Fell.They said that sirens live in the deep, wild oceans; at the bottom of the Mariana Trench: and that selkies live in the north, near Ireland and Finland and in parts of Alaska.On all counts, they were largely wrong.





	1. New Eden

**Author's Note:**

> My take on the MerMay madness...

The drive up to Eden House was a long one, gravelled and full of potholes, and the taxi stops halfway, its wheels stuck firmly in deep chalky mud. Aziraphale thanks the driver for his pains, picks up his suitcase, and rummages in his pocket for a handful of creased five-pound notes.

 

His fare paid, the driver reversed with a crunch and sped away from the odd passenger, and he watched the red lights disappear like a pair of eyes blinking.

 

Aziraphale doesn’t know the house all that well; his fingertips nervously brush against the metal of the new keys he holds, because his tour of the place was brief, and he’s not entirely sure what he’s gotten into.

 

The house as he remembers is sprawling; the grounds neatly kept by a grumpy old gardener who went by the name of Shadwell. There are six bedrooms, six bathrooms, a summerhouse, a glasshouse, a conservatory, two parlours, a living room, kitchen, and bathroom. There had been stables, once, but now they lay derelict as shards of stone and wood, untouched since their destruction in the year 1901.

 

None of it mattered; not really. There had only been one thing that Aziraphale had really needed, and that was a pond.

Or a lake.

Or any body of water.

 

He had signed the paperwork with the moniker of Mr. A. Z. Fell, and had handed over a stack of crisp hundred-pound notes; buying the crumbling property outright for just under half the asking price, contents included.

 

This was because, the previous owners had said, the property was haunted.

 

 


	2. Making a home from air

By the time Aziraphale had walked up the path to the green-painted back-gate, the horizon has become a little lighter. It had taken them nearly six hours to get from Heathrow Airport to this plot of land on the edge of Salisbury Plain under heavy traffic, and it had taken him nearly an hour to make his stumbling journey to the back door in the dark despite his good vision. He picked his way carefully through the barren and weed-ridden Edwardian kitchen-garden, a summer chill ghosting across the back of his neck, and put his cases on the stoop.

 

There’s a little sign above the door, and he noticed it as he fitted the key snugly into the old brass lock; green-painted to match the fence and the gate, scrolling calligraphy reading Eden House in gold script; and somebody has picked out delicate feathered wings on either side with white paint. It’s rather sweet, really.

 

He hefted his suitcases back into his arms, the cracked leather covered in stickers from long-ago holidays, and used his shoulder to nudge the door open: it creaks sadly, the glass pane set into it smeared with dust and grime. The house had been cleaned at the behest of the auction firm doing the actual selling, but it seems that the cleaners had ran out of time before they’d gotten to the back door. He stepped through and into a kitchen-office, which was narrow and built like a ship’s galley, with a tangerine-orange tiled floor, and polka-dotted red curtains on the two square windows.

The walls are an off-white colour, and there was an ancient, plasticky computer set up on the counter opposite the huge American fridge-freezer and industrial-sized AGA range. A door on the left lead into what the seller had called a “granny-annex”, a little self-enclosed flat with a bedroom and bathroom, but already Aziraphale is imagining filling it, floor-to-ceiling, with years’ worth of knick-knacks and hundreds of treasured books.

 

There’s a bed, in the middle of the room, under a ceiling-fan: and Aziraphale, exhausted, left his suitcase to fall with a thunk to the dusty red carpet and took a wary look at the lilac walls before his eyelids began to droop, and he finally lay down and slept like the dead.


	3. The song of the lake.

Aziraphale woke at exactly two o’clock in the morning, some forty-eight hours later. He rolled over in the dark and shivered for a scant moment, and then he stretched, feeling his shoulders click back into place with a satisfied groan. There were goosebumps on his arms from the draught coming in through the open door. He’d left the back-door open. The air in the house felt crisp and chilly and strange, in the new way of those eldritch hours before a dawn.

 

He stood up. There was no reason at all to worry, although he was cautious and groggily alert as he flicked the light-switch and the bulb overhead blinked into golden light with a click. The nearest houses were on the outskirts of Imber Village, nearly two miles away, and it was a ghost-town:  on clear days he could see the Army using it for training exercises. Nobody had gotten in. Nobody could get in. He would have known if they had. 

 

 He toed on a pair of old sheepskin slippers and puttered into the kitchen, turning on the heating, dusting off a box of teabags with an expiry date of 1993, and putting some water into the kettle. It took nearly half an hour to reach a boil. He would probably have to go shopping in the morning.

 

He made himself a mug of tea, black with no sugar, a staple for the thirsty Englishman in strange surroundings, because he was quintessentially English at heart.

then Aziraphale stepped out of the open door as it swung in the wind, and went to stand in the middle of the patio. The stars were bright: out here in the middle of nowhere, there was no light pollution, and he could hear cicadas and crickets chirping, and the occasional shriek of an owl. Orion. Cassiopeia. The Plough. All of them laid out in a map of the heavens above, stars that he’d known from childhood like old friends.

 


	4. Bohemian Rhapsody

 

It took him a good ten minutes to figure out that he could hear something else overlaid over the top of the night-noises, a haunting melody sung in a quiet voice, and the lyrics were nonsense, but sung so beautifully that he had to tilt his head to the side and listen. He stopped, stepping tentatively from the patio and onto a sweeping stone-paved staircase with intricately-carved baroque banisters on either side, rendered in granite. He walked past shining metal patio-furniture and a tiny, glinting pool set into stone, watching the shadow of a koi turn lazily beneath the pondweed.

 

_“Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a landslide: no escape from reality.”_

 

The voice: the singer’s voice: is soft and deep and barely a whisper, hitting each note with bell-like clarity. There was a rustle of wind in the elm trees, and Aziraphale left his tea on the end of the banister and set off across the uncut grass, treading lightly past the summerhouse. The early-morning starlight paints everything silver, and he can hear more clearly now. The feeling of the green carpet of plants and moss giving beneath his feet is odd, because it is scrubby and brittle here in what could almost be called summer. 

 

“ _Mama, just killed a man. Put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger- now he’s dead_.”

 

He can guess well enough where it’s coming from. In front of him lies the lake: the water flat and glassy like a mirror, and there is a small, rotting rowboat that rocks in the gentle breeze, tethered to a short jetty. There’s a small island in the middle, overgrown with a moss-covered fountain almost lost amidst blackberry brambles and a small, crumbling ornamental pagoda, and the lake is fringed with bulrushes and the nests of waterfowl.

 

Glinting in the light, its back end fully submerged in the shallowest end of the water, is an old Bentley, the winged bonnet mascot sticking out from amidst a tangle of bulrushes. The paintwork, black and as deep and dark as a raven’s wing, almost seems to emit light rather than merely reflecting, seemingly unscathed despite being half-underwater. It’s vintage, and looks well-kept: there are a pair of the old James Bond bullet-hole stickers in the window, half-peeling. The leather furnishings are, somehow, miraculously dry, and the front-wheels cling stubbornly to the ground like anchors, stopping it from slipping any further.

 

Aziraphale blinked, and, having nothing better to do, kicked off his slippers and rolled his trousers up to the knees, and sat on the bank, dipping his feet in the water and humming in contentment.

 

“ _Mama, life had just begun! And now I’ve gone and thrown it all away…_ ”

 

Another snatch of song drifts past his ears, slightly louder, the raw emotion injected into the line sending shivers down his spine and raising the fine hair on his arms. He looked to his left, as the clouds moved aside and caused the moon to brighten, and nearly shrieked in surprise.

 

A pair of glowing, yellow eyes stared back at him.


	5. Sirens and sinking ships

Aziraphale scrambled backwards, nearly falling into the water in his haste to get away, his face white and stark with shocked horror.

 _Siren_.

The… thing on the other side of the lake stopped singing abruptly, eyes widening, and Aziraphale made a panicked noise that sounded a little like a squawk. It had noticed him. The siren had noticed him.

Aziraphale knew what siren-eyes looked like. It had been something his mother had warned him of, in the last days before the sea-fire in her heart went out completely. _Don’t be tempted by sirens,_ she had said, _for they are out to ruin you. Don’t be tempted by anything._

Two days later, she had died, and he had left the little house in Brighton to the sound of mourning-bells, had left in the night and never looked back.

Aziraphale growled under his breath. He’d been so distracted that he’d forgotten completely about the strange music he could hear, too enraptured by the water. And here he was now, stuck with a siren in his lake, and anything could happen-

Shaking, fumbling, too afraid to look back, he hauled himself from his perch and-

“Wait!”  
He turned at the sound. The siren was sitting half-underwater, sitting against the end of the Bentley and leaning forwards, looking agonised. Those eyes…

Aziraphale had to dare himself to look; they were intelligent, slit-pupilled, a luminous golden yellow that faded to green at the edges, glazed with something not remotely human, something that looked a little like regret and a lot like fear.

The blond forced himself to focus. The thing sat there, not making a move other than to dart its eyes nervously to the left and the right. It was pale in the moonlight, a sculpted figure, all long limbs and freckles and elegant cheekbones, with a decidedly male appearance. There was a tail where the legs should have been, covered in thousands of tiny, iridescent scales that glittered green and gold. And, framing the handsome face, like a waterfall of flame, there was red hair; a bloody, coppery colour, that fell in ringlets and wild curls to the thing’s shoulders.

He was… there was no other word.

He was _enchanting_.

But then, weren’t all sirens? Wasn’t that their modus operandi? To drag you down, drown you, sink their sharp fangs deep into your throat? The siren spoke again, and when it did, its voice was deep and gentle and soft, and he could see far too many needle-pointed teeth like the jaws of a snake; and the thoughts running through his head were near sickening him with terror-

His hand caught something; a cobblestone about as big as his fist, polished, as smooth under the moonlight as a porpoise. If only he could…

His numb fingers closed around it. Maybe, maybe if he could find the strength, throw it across the lake and strike the beast, maybe even kill it- hysteria, shrieking and wild-eyed, clouded his judgement again, and a fear-laden and shivering breath left his lips, forming dragon-smoke in the chill of the early morning and the icy frigidity of the water that still lapped at his ankles.

“ _Wait!_ ”

And Aziraphale’s jumbled thoughts came crashing back to earth.

 


	6. A lesson on Selkie lore

* * *

Technically, Aziraphale was a selkie, although people made jokes about that. He, really, was only that by name, because in every other sense of the word he was a species of his own. His mother, yes, had been seal-folk.

His father, however, had not.

  
His father had been a fisherman, a poacher, a hot-blooded drunk at times, and a pelt-stealer. He remembered how his mother; loving, but too saddened by separation from her home; had raised him virtually on her own when Father was away, too scared of leaving him to ever go back to the ocean. Selkies live a long time, but his mother had not.

Not when she was away, alone, the sea-light in her eyes dimming by the hour. She’d married at twenty-two, and by thirty-eight she lay dead.

That was part of the problem. Maybe, he’d thought bitterly, salt-cold one night alone, that it would have been easier to blend in if she’d been there with him. He’d joined a pod near Wales, many of them his own age, hoping that it would make it easier. They hadn’t shunned him outright; but had accepted him more out of pity than anything else, and laughed behind his back- and when he’d donned his own pelt and joined them in the sea, they had avoided him entirely.

He just didn’t look or act like them.

He was blond and pale; with his father’s colouring, his human father’s colouring, too close to human to be a true selkie, because the blood of a man of the land ran in his veins. He had his mother’s stormy grey-blue eyes, but that was an abnormality among the sea-folk. He could understand the language of the oceans, but could not speak it himself, because his mother had died before he’d grown into his own Voice. She had never seen him seal-formed, a silver-grey colour, unlike the drab browns and blacks of his so-called brethren. In truth, Aziraphale was a selkie, but he often felt more human.

And right now he felt very human, and very confused. His hand stilled. Selkies live a long time, and in nearly three-hundred years- only just an adult, really, but still a grand age compared to the people around him- nothing like this had ever happened, and he forgot himself.

“I beg your pardon?”

He had forgotten. It is dangerous to talk to sirens. And Aziraphale clapped his hand over his mouth to stifle further words, and ran for the house. When he passed it, his tea was cold. 


	7. Crowley

There was somebody new in Eden House, and Crowley wanted no part in any of it. The previous tenants had left with little influence on his part, which was exactly how he liked it, and he couldn’t help but feel a heavy sense of relief that his input had not been necessary. He had his pond and the small garden he maintained under the shade of the Weeping Willow tree, and he had the remains of the old Bentley that he’d maintained since it had crashed there in 1927.

That incident had, regrettably, been by his design.

He didn’t have much in the life he’d made for himself, but he had everything he needed or wanted, and as long as he was left alone, he would be happy to continue on as he always had. He had never really wanted to be what he was, but he’d fallen too deep. It was his lot in life, and as the people on land said, he just had to _buck up_ and _get on with things_. He couldn’t exactly walk away; that had been his bargain and his due.

His job… was something he was getting very good at avoiding. It wasn’t exactly written into his biology, or his mind, but it was something almost like a long-buried ancestral memory or instinct, a slight buzzing of the brain. He could count on one hand the number of people he’d actually dragged to their deaths; it was easier to simply scare them away.

It was duty alone that had him sitting up against the Bentley that night, watching the two lights in the windows of the house, and the stout figure that flickered behind them. He didn’t do it with any malicious intent, but he turned on the little radio he’d found and picked up the opening strains of Bohemian Rhapsody, and within the hour he had the song memorised. The lyrics were interesting, at least. Better than the _Pina_ _Colada Song, The Sound of Music_ , or worse- _It_ ’ _s Raining Men_. 

And, finally, when the door opened, he began to sing. It was nothing more than a soft and crooning whisper, just enough to satiate the water’s hunger for fresh blood.

Crowley knew that he had a good voice, because sometimes he sang just for the joy of singing, when he forgot himself. Crowley was a siren, but he’d lived on land once, and he took his joy where he could get it. He couldn’t exactly talk to somebody, because his was a solitary species, and any conversations between two of them usually ended in death. That was just a fact of lore.

He felt more than saw the warm, alive presence that moved across the grounds, a soft and breathing figure that burned in his mental map of the gardens. And then he saw the soft blonde glow of the living man in the moonlight, and the sparkle of kind, weary eyes, and he hid. His job was to tempt, and he drew away and drew silent.

But, then, as the man found his seat at the bank and reclined, Crowley couldn’t help but sing another line in the thrill of being close to another being after nearly a decade, and there was a sharp intake of breath, and Crowley froze. He’d been spotted, for the first time in his long life, and as the man began to recoil in shock-

“Wait!” He blurted. He couldn’t help it on instinct, and flushed red, and nearly sank below the water as the ripples of the man’s panic faded and were replaced with anger. Because Crowley was a creature of temptation, but that didn’t mean he was immune to it. And loneliness is a powerful motivator.

_But he shouldn’t have done that, and surely now he would be killed-_

“I beg your pardon?” The man-on-land asked, the panic in his eyes clouding over and dulling before he clapped a hand over his mouth in shock at his own audacity and fled. And Crowley sighed, slouching, crumbling in on himself in relief and sinking beneath steel-grey water.

“Well, that went down like a lead balloon, didn’t it?”


	8. Tea and biscuits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes are in the end notes :) 
> 
> I’m so sorry I haven’t updated in ages, I had mock exams. I passed all of them, though!
> 
> Also, I’ve reformatted this to be shorter chapters. It makes it easier to write. None of the storyline has changed.

It took a whole pot of tea and half a pack of Hobnobs* before Aziraphale’s hands stopped shaking. He brushed the oat crumbs from his shirt and dabbed at his lips with a handkerchief, and then he sat back in his chair, spine slumping miserably. 

“Oh.” He said. “Oh dear.”

Oh dear indeed. 

There was a siren in his lake. Aziraphale was more than deeply troubled by this fact. 

There was a natural enmity between their species; the sirens had once been human, and selkies such as himself had a deep distrust of them, which was often reciprocated. They were hereditary enemies. 

If he left the siren there, he wouldn’t be able to safely use the lake. Separation from the water would kill him, as slowly and torturously as it had his mother. He could get away with settling for freshwater, thanks to his father’s genes, but the lake was his whole reason for buying Eden House. 

But if he removed the siren, he would be risking life and limb. That was acceptable. But eviction from the lake? It would kill the other being, and that was something like murder. It didn’t sit right with him. 

It took him a while to pinpoint exactly why. He was fiddling idly with the lid of the dusty stainless-steel teapot when it hit him. 

The siren had been completely and utterly passive. Selkies have more willpower than your average human, but Aziraphale hadn’t felt at all compelled to hurl himself into the rocks. Not one iota.

Which meant that the siren hadn’t been trying. 

The red-haired... thing... hadn’t wanted to kill him. He had just been singing. The thought hit him like a bolt from the blue, which explained his reluctance with the thought of hurling that cobblestone across the lake. 

Aziraphale felt sick at himself. He’d been contemplating murder. 

Tomorrow, he decided, he’d go and politely ask the siren if there was somewhere else he could go. Politeness couldn’t hurt, and it could well reduce the chances of being eaten alive. He would get some sleep, and then confront the beast. A vaguely relieved smile crossed his face. 

But first, before bed, he’d have another biscuit or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [*for those who are Not British, Hobnobs are a type of crunchy, oat-y, flapjack-y biscuit or cookie, covered in chocolate. They’re quite delicious. ]


	9. The Prelude

At morning, Aziraphale dragged himself out of bed bright and early, anxiety thrumming under his skin until he was a jumbled heap of nerves. 

 

He would have to go and draw the siren out. A civil conversation. Nice and easy. 

 

Except that it wasn’t. If things got nasty, he could very well die. 

 

Aziraphale straightened his shoulders, pulled on a soft dressing-gown over his pyjamas, and tucked a sharp kitchen knife into his belt, just in case. It did nothing to alleviate the uneasy feeling in his stomach, but the logical part of his mind told him that any chance was better than no chance at all.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Crowley was panicking. He’d hidden beneath the Bentley, a hopeless mess, knowing that the pitchforks and flaming torches would arrive at any moment. The fear in the human’s eyes had seared itself into his brain, and  _he knew_ . The man had  _known_ . 

 

But nothing had returned, and a night of waiting had left his nerves shattered to the far edge of hysteria. Crowley rather valued his existence. He wasn’t ready for it to end so quickly. 

 

He’d already died once, thank-you very much.He wasn’t keen to repeat the experience. 

 

Crowley hid. And as he hid, he made a plan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	10. Amidst the swells and breakers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I'm back! I can't apologise enough for the delay; but the last few weeks have been crazy, and I just haven't had the time or energy to sit down and continue this until today. Why continue a WIP when you have 1000+ other AU ideas swimming 'round in your brain? 
> 
> I'm terribly sorry for the last cliffhanger. 
> 
> Let me know what you think of this instalment, or feel free to just yell at me in the comments! As always, I love hearing from people!

Crowley was terrified.

No, that was an understatement. Crowley was falling apart, fading and glasslike in fear, looking side-to-side so quickly that he was worried he’d break his neck.

 

The pitchforks hadn’t arrived yet, but he wasn’t foolish enough to believe they never would. He hadn’t paid his due to the lake, and he would die for it.

 

He should’ve dragged the blonde man down, should have treated him with the same amount of mercy he imagined that he himself would be subjected to. That was Humans all over. If they found something they didn’t understand, they would kill it in fear. That was an old song and dance.

 

Crowley hummed anxiously under his breath, crouched behind the back-wheel of his Bentley, fingers curling into fists at his sides, sharp nails digging crescents into the soft flesh of his palms. He wasn’t breathing. He didn’t really need to, but it was a comfort. Crowley didn’t need comfort.

 

He needed to survive. Comfort was immaterial. His eyes were fixed on the looming shape of the house above him.

 

The man had tried to kill him, but something had held him back. Crowley didn’t know why. They were hereditary enemies, for goodness’ sake; but this anticipation was far crueller than a killing blow of stone on skull. Maybe that was his goal; perhaps that was the endgame here. Break him down into a trembling wreck, until he hoped for death, and kill him slowly that way, by driving him out of his mind with worry. Perhaps the human was waiting to mount his head over the fireplace.

 

Fish nipped at him, and he shifted to bat them away. The little bastards were getting cocky now. And when the splashing faded, Crowley froze, not daring to turn.

 

Footfalls echoed softly across grass.

 

* * *

 

Aziraphale approached the opposite side of the lake this time, trying to come up with something to say. He could see the pale shape of the siren distorted by the rippling water, only his head and shoulders above the water. He was shifting his tail somewhat uncomfortably, the lake splashing and rippling around him. Yellow eyes were presumably riveted to the shape of the house, and Aziraphale imagined the beast planning its next meal, thinking of exactly how to lure him to his doom.

 

His hand, instinctively, went to the breadknife in his belt. Its back was to him. He could kill it now, one swift blow, the back of his neck less than an arm’s reach away. Then the lake would be his, and he would have nothing to fear. Just one little cut….

 

No. No. even if it was a matter of survival, Aziraphale _would not_ make himself a murderer. He wouldn’t sink to the thing’s level. No matter how passive it had been, sirens were cruel killers. Aziraphale was a selkie, and he would not fall so low.

 

The siren stilled and froze as he approached, shuddering. Was that worry, or bloodlust? He couldn’t tell, and the fine hair on his arms raised. Aziraphale stopped in his tracks.

 

“Hello?” He called.

* * *

 

“Hello?” the man called from the bank, voice clear and deadly-soft, and Crowley flinched, hard, and made to dive underwater. He had to get away; he had to go; this was it. He was going to die.

 

He made a terrified noise somewhere between a squeak and a hiss.

 

“I won’t hurt you.” The man said, evenly. “Not if you give me no reason to.”

 

Crowley had no choice than to assume it was a lie. This was survival, after all. As much as he wanted the man to be genuine, he knew it was a ploy. He turned. The blonde man was toeing the edge of the bank, shivering in the chill of the morning, and there was a sharp blade tucked into his belt. His eyes caught on the glinting steel, eyes widening, pupils shrinking in unadulterated fear. He could barely take in the man’s curly hair, or how it glowed like the halo of one of those angels Crowley had pretended to worship in his other life. He didn’t see the man’s soft shape or kind blue eyes, or the look of pity on his careworn face. He only saw danger.

 

“You won’t hurt me.” He said, voice quavering. “You’ll kill me, instead.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm sorry, but updates will be a lot slower than they already are from here on out. I've started therapy and by Original Novel is also really hitting its stride, as well as Academic Things, but ill do my best to work around that to get the chapters out as quickly as I can. 
> 
> You can probably expect another update within a fortnight :)


	11. Backwash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, okay. Sorry I vanished for awhile. 
> 
> This chapter contains a character death; a drowning- and some flashbacks. Nothing terribly graphic, but reader discretion is advised.

As soon as the words left his mouth, Crowley knew he’d made a mistake. 

 

All of a sudden he was left alone by the water, thrown backwards nearly four hundred years, catapulted, an unwilling captive, into his own memories. Sirens never forgot a thing; it was useful for memorising songs.

But it was a curse. 

 

Back, years and years back, before Eden house had existed, there had been a manor-house on the site. 

 

Crowley- back then he’d had a first name, too; but he’d lost it to the water - had been, briefly, employed as a gardener. It had been a nice job. He liked plants. Still did. 

 

He’d been the son of a farmer, had left home at fifteen to find work. He’d never seen his family again, hadn’t seen Beatrice and Diana - the youngest twins - grow up, hadn’t seen his elder brothers Henry and Lawrence return from their apprenticeships. 

 

All four of his siblings were long dead, by now. There was no sense in grieving for them, not when their faces were so blurred by time. 

 

He’d worked at the house that would later beenEden, and had loved it. His pride and joy had been the orchard; glossy-leaved trees heavy with ruby-coloured fruit, picked each autumn and in bloom every spring. He’d always been given a basket of the apples to take home at the end of the harvest, to the little cottage he’d built on the outskirts of the land. 

 

He remembered the taste of them, sweet and tart, juice sticky on his fingers, crisp flesh yielding beneath his teeth. He missed that, missed the sweetness. But the trees had all died in the intervening centuries, bulldozed flat when the current house had risen. 

 

He missed their companionship. 

 

He had looked after the formal lawns and flower beds, had pruned the raspberry canes and looked after the potted vines. He’d spent evenings pulling creeping ivy from the crumbling walls. It had been idyllic, spending all day in the sun, weather-beaten with mud under his nails. 

 

But, as all good things tend to do, it had ended far too soon. 

 

The family’s youngest son, Adam, was to be married in late summer, and his betrothed had travelled up from her home for the ceremony. The marriage would gain them a second estate in Somerset; it wasn’t a terrible price to pay. 

 

Nobody had told Crowley, and he’d been caught unawares by the young lady. She was intelligent, and a good conversationalist; and she despised her husband-to-be. 

 

But then, he’d offered her an apple from the orchard, and the lord of the house had seen them strolling together through the trees, deep in conversation, and assumed the worst. The next night, they had come for him.

 

He’d fought; thrashed in their grip and flailed, had hit and kicked and pleaded, but it wasn’t enough.

 

The eldest son, in a drunken rage, had dragged him to the lake and held him under. 


	12. On the effects of gravity and cold water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! This is a long chapter; I’m sorry it’s taken so long, and I think I owe you guys an explanation. I’ve recently become a published poet and I’m still dealing with that. As well as that, I’ve had to deal with college entrance exams, and writing the two novels I’m working on- One of which is posted here on Ao3, the other is still undergoing some reshuffles and plot development. My cat, Luckers, (who’s basically a therapy animal by now) was also recently badly injured and made lame, so I’m in the midst of helping my poor boy through his recovery and physical rehabilitation. Thank goodness, he’s almost healed up and back to his normal self, dashing about the house like a loon.  
> He’s glaring at me as I type this. Silly cat. 
> 
> Anyway, I’m sorry to keep you guys waiting, and here’s the next chapter! Feel free to leave comments or kudos to tell me what you think!

Aziraphale’s guarded expression slowly fell into a soft frown, his brow furrowing as he watched the siren. The creature’s gaze was distant, face pale and slack with terror, and Aziraphale slowly realised that something had gone terribly wrong. 

 

The knife tumbled to the grass, but the siren still did not snap out of it. He was barely breathing, taking in short, shallow gasps of air like a man half-drowned. 

 

“Excuse me?”

 

There was no response. The siren was obviously in the throes of some kind of nightmare, and Aziraphale did the only thing he could think of to wake him up, acting purely on instinct.

 

Perhaps without considering the consequences at all, he reached out a tentative hand, and placed it gently on the siren’s shoulder. 

 

He realised that he should have known better shortly afterwards, because, before he even had chance to draw breath, the siren had yanked him into the icy water. 

 

* * *

 

All the air smacked out of his lungs when he hit the water, plunging, straining to breathe as the summer chill rushed in. It seethed against him, rallying as he tried to clutch onto that last blessed lungful of oxygen. He was choking, spluttering, in a shock of cold as the bubbles slipped through his fingers and up towards the dim sky. 

 

He had no pelt; it’s in his case, in the house, and he cannot find buoyancy, cannot shift into seal-form to escape. 

 

He will die a man. The thought scares him, more than he would ever admit.

 

The water is not his friend, not now. Perhaps it has never been his friend. It only takes and takes and takes, Aziraphale realises, and he’s reaching; feeling both his own fear and one entirely apart from his own, seeing sunlight glittering on the roiling surface like the light-glow inside a ruby. 

 

He should have seen this coming. There was a siren in his lake, and he’d signed his own death-warrant by going anywhere near the thing.

 

Aziraphale reached for the bank, missed, sharp reeds slicing into his palms, hands stuck in a dark slick of mud, panic dropping like mercury down his spine. He opened his mouth to yell, but it’s only him and the lake, flooding in, surrounding him, coughing, growing faint above his head and dark below him, dark green. The world is fading away now- or is it him that is fading? He is transparent, glasslike, barely lucid in unfamiliar terror. The light is fading, and his limbs are like lead. He can’t swim up, can’t get to where it-

Pressure. Pulling, grey sky growing wider; going dim at the edges; until his face bursts through, and air- precious, glorious gasps of crisp, ozone-stained air is forcing away the water, and Aziraphale spluttered and sobbed, gasping in air…

He feels cold hands. Icy fingers clinging to him, narrow, sharp.

“Hold on.” That was his rescuer. It should have been a scream,  but the words rasped.

 

Aziraphale turned, and found clear golden eyes looking at him. 

 

In the joy of being alive, he finds them suddenly beautiful. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to yell at me in the comments, because comments and kudos make my day! I’m always happy to hear what you guys think of my writing!


	13. A Knight in Shining Armour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm back! this is a short chapter, but the next one should come before the end of the year, hopefully. I can't make any promises. Anyway, Enjoy this update!

Aziraphale surfaced with a gasp, choking down a mouthful of silty water before he could stop himself and gagging at the foul, fishy taste. Two cold hands steadied him with a vice-like grip, gently pushing him towards the bank until he could find his feet, and he shakily pulled himself upright as the cold receded.

 

Aziraphale pulled off his jacket, wincing at the ruined state of the old fabric, and threw it to land in a sodden heap on the bank. Then, he turned again to the siren. His rescuer.

 

“Thank you.” He said, simply, half-awed and three-parts terrified. The siren combed one hand through his tangled red hair, wincing at a snag.

 

“It’s okay. I – I don’t – Ugh, I don’t like… well. Seeing people drown.” Said the siren distractedly, working through the tangled ends of his hair, which were starting to curl and go slightly frizzy as they dried. He sighed and looked up, and blue eyes met blazing amber for the third time.

 

Aziraphale winced. The siren immediately looked away, and sighed again.

 

“I’m sorry.” Aziraphale said. “I’m really not used to- “ He waved a hand vaguely between them, as if to indicate the series of events that had bought him here. “- any of this. Thank you, though. For saving me.”

 

“I said before. Don’t like seeing people drown.” The siren started to back away, looking wary. “I trust that you can get out of here now you’ve found your feet?”

 

Aziraphale stopped. “Of course. But you don’t have to go! I really do mean you no harm, dear boy. Especially not after this.”

 

“The knife in your belt says differently.”

 

“Now, really, I –“

 

“Look.” The siren turned, eyes meeting his again, looking resigned. “Don’t play games. If you’re here to kill me, just do it, _please._ ”

 

“I-“ Aziraphale started, but the siren ignored him, carrying on.

 

“I know you humans hate things like me.” He said calmly, eyes pleading. “But I can’t keep living in fear, with all these ifs and maybes, just waiting for the blow with my head on the block.”

His voice cracked. “ _So just do it already. Please_.”

 

Aziraphale’s face crumpled. Was this what he’d inflicted on the poor thing? Now that he looked, he could see the tense set of the siren’s shoulders, the barely controlled tremor, the wide eyes with scleras turned completely yellow. The poor fellow had said he was benevolent, and although his instincts told him otherwise, Aziraphale was inclined to believe him after today’s mishap.

 

“I won’t.” Aziraphale said, shifting closer, and the siren froze, his eyes fluttering closed as though anticipating a blow.

 

“And you were wrong.” He continued. “In that assessment of me, I mean.”

 

The siren slowly cracked an eye open.

 

“I’m not human. Not _entirely_ , anyway.”

 

The siren snorted. “Go on, pull the other one!” he said, gesturing to the knife at the bank. “That doesn’t exactly scream _‘peace and goodwill’_ , does it?”

 

“It was – ah – insurance.” Aziraphale admitted. “Just in case things turned nasty. But I’m not going to hurt you.”      

 

There was a huff, and the siren slumped. “I ..   believe you.” He admitted, shifting reluctantly closer. “The name’s Crowley, by the way.”

 

“Crowley.” The blond smiled. “Lovely to meet you properly. I'm Aziraphale."                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so! let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> In case you were wondering, Eden House is based vaguely on a house in Salisbury. Its an old manor house, and largely uninhabited; it's been abandoned for the past fifty-odd years, and is quite incredible. I snuck in there once, just to get a look: (kind of like Sally Sparrow does in that doctor who episode, Blink.) and it's like a blast from the past. I reckon I was the first person in there since the dawn of the century...


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